Possessive
by Fang323
Summary: His John did not belong. Not here. Not in this blasted hospital. It simply was not logical.


Hey there, Fang here. Though I have written Star Trek fanfictions, most of them unpublished, and many Anime fanfictions, this is my first Sherlock Fanfiction. I am still trying to figure out how to write from quite different perspectives than I am used to, but I feel this is rather well off.

Please enjoy. Thank you.

* * *

His John didn't belong in a hospital.

At the moment, that was the only fact that Sherlock Holmes actually cared about.

A hospital meant death, and pain, and hurt. A hospital offered nothing but that dreaded hope that the person in question would be healed, but there was still that _if_ that actually mattered more than most idiotic people realized. Sherlock hated hospitals.

The sounds were so mechanical and unfeeling. Like himself, he mused. Not John. John wasn't like the constant beeping of annoying lights or whirring of machines. He was actually human, flesh and blood.

Everything was blasted white in here as well. What, hospitals couldn't have a splash of color on their walls to make things even the slightest bit more interesting? If there was nothing else to stare at than the walls, Sherlock was sure that he would die of boredom for real this time.

However, there was something infinitely more interesting to watch in this bloody (quite literally) place. The much-too pale surface of skin, wherever he could see it amidst the bandages (also white. What the bloody hell were the designers, colorblind?). The flickering eyelids moving back and forth as their master dreamed in unconscious slumber. The slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets, the only true indication that he was alive.

Sherlock scooted his chair closer to his heart lying still on the bed, its legs scraping the floor with a nasty screetch. John's head turned towards him as if he could sense his presence growing closer to him, and Sherlock gently pushed a lock of hair out of his still-too-white face.

John didn't belong in this place of death.

John belonged on the couch in front of the tele next to Sherlock after shoving him to the other side, watching some crap program and stuffing his face with biscuits that he had found after shoving aside the jar of fingernails in the cupboard.

John belonged next to a corpse at a crime scene while looking up at Sherlock with a sarcastic retort to his logical deduction.

John belonged leaning against the couch, staring at the bullet holes in the wall where Sherlock had just shot about twelve bullets, tilting his head a bit to the side and remarking that it rather looked like a rough outline of the Prime Minister's face, if you took the wallpaper pattern into accord.

John belonged walking next to an old war veteran, hearing his stories and his life with a compassionate face and an understanding hand that was no longer shaking, to Sherlock's relief as he watched from the window of their flat.

John belonged there across from him, wearing that bomb vest, and where anyone else would have been begging and pleading for a way out of this situation, he was simply staring at Sherlock with those damned trusting eyes that they would somehow get out of this alive.

John belonged out in the rain with him with Sherlock's hand grasped around his wrist and literally dragging him along out of excitement, but despite his protests that Sherlock was going too fast, he wore that wry smile on his face.

His John didn't belong here.

Sherlock tensed as John gave a small moan in his sleep, flexing his bandaged fingers around the bed covers and tightening their grip. WIthout a thought as to what he was doing, Sherlock lifted John's hand in his own and wrapped his own long, thin (too thin, as Ms. Hudson thought) fingers around that hand. Warmth flowed into his grip, and John relaxed, falling limp against the pillow again.

He removed his hand, and stood up, removing his coat and throwing it gently upon the calm body, tucking it around the smaller man. John always complained that his long coat smelled too much like Sherlock, all mysterious chemicals and rain and smoke.

He could almost swear John was smiling, but he was never a good judge of facial expressions anyway. Sherlock sat down again, and folded his hands together, his eyes never leaving the sleeping man.

John belonged now.

* * *

Author's Comments:

I have watched this series religiously, as well as having seen the Grenada series, quite a few of the movies, and having read the entire series of Sherlock Holmes at least 10, if not more, times. Arthur Conan Doyle is a complete and utter genius, despite if he recognized it or not. I thank him profusely for creating such wonderful characters for us writers to delve into and expand upon to reaches he probably couldn't imagine.

Please review, as I am constantly trying to improve my writing in every way possible.

Thank you for reading.

-Fang


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